Duke Aron Imlia
Lore *'Name': Duke Aron Imlia of House Imlia *Role: *'Age': 30 (in 1337) *Sex: *Height: *Weight: *Eyes: *Hair: *Skin: *Appearance: *Philosophy: *Faith/Creed: *Personality: *Gifts: *Flaws: *Allies: *Enemies: *Background & Notes: *Equipment: Game Statistics Temporal Attributes *STRENGTH: *AGILITY: *TOUGHNESS: *ENDURANCE: *HEALTH: Mental Attributes *WILLPOWER: *WIT: *MENTAL APTITUDE: *SOCIAL: *PERCEPTION: Spiritual Attributes *CONSCIENCE: *DESTINY: *DRIVE: *FAITH: *LUCK: *PASSION: Derived Attributes *REFLEX: *AIM: *KNOCKDOWN: *KNOCKOUT: *MOVE: Skills Proficiencies Offensive Maneuvers Defensive Maneuvers Pools Combat Pool Missile Pool Sorcery Pool The Swaying Lord Not for the first time, Aron Imlia was pulled from a perfectly good dream by his lady wife’s intolerable snoring. He turned around with a sigh. The white silk curtains swirled like ghosts in the open window, the cool breeze of the night promising a warm day to come. Lady Ester Camrey lay on her back, sleeping deeply. Aron pinched her nose to stop the noise. She grunted and turned on her side, away from him. Outside, he heard his guards patrol the gardens surrounding the estates. Their bedchamber was shrouded in darkness. Lady Ester gurgled, and then resumed her snoring. Aron rose to sit in his bed, swinging his legs over the edge and using his feet to find his slippers. He decided to steal into Ehsan’s room and get some sleep there instead. Ehsan was one of the estate’s courtesans, a beautiful, lithe and dark woman from some distant land, with a well shaped body. Just the thought of her made him hard. He enjoyed taking her from behind, but it had been a while since he’d had the time or energy to play his games with her. It was his grandfather, Lord Samew, who had worked so hard and tirelessly to achieve his House’s most important goal – to get one of his grandsons married into the House of the Camreys, who had ruled the province for six centuries. Aron admired his grandfather for all the work he had done to raise his family to the highest ranks of nobility, but it pained him that it was he that must pay the price of his grandfather’s scheming. It was Aron who was forced to take Lady Ester’s hand at the marriage ceremony at the Camrey Castle. It was Aron who was forced to take the king’s daughter to bed on the wedding night, and it was Aron who was forced to endure her ceaseless snoring. He turned around to look at her, letting out a breath of dismay. She wasn’t even good to look at. Square-jawed like a man, with hair on her upper lip, eyes set too wide apart, and a frown that never left her forehead. Her body was hard and strong, her breasts small and flat, her legs hairy, even though she did, in her defence, shave them regularly. On their wedding night, he had drunk himself stupid, sad and angry with his grandfather, forcing himself to lift Lady Ester’s skirt and take her on the wedding bed with all the passion and romance of a dog. If only she had shown some skill, some will to touch him, but she was as uncertain about it as a virgin. Maybe she was a virgin. If only he hadn’t loved and respected his grandfather the way he did, he wouldn’t accept this farce. “All for your family”, Lord Samew’s voice uttered softly in his mind. His feet found the slippers, and he rose from the bed. Lady Ester snored on, oblivious to her surroundings. He shook his head with disgust. Walking over to the wall, he snatched a night’s gown from a peg on the wall and dressed. Leaving the chamber, he found himself in a hallway lit by a single torch on the wall, illuminating the green carpets on the floor. Walking down the hallway he decided to sneak into the kitchens for a chicken leg before finding Eshan in the servants’ quarters. Before he came to the staircase leading down and out of the lordly private chambers, he heard voices in the hallway on the floor below. He instantly recognized the gruff, tired voice of Gervys, one of the loyal guardsmen who had served House Imlia for years, and who usually spent his nights patrolling the hallways of the estates. “I will not let you pass,” he grumbled, and Aron could imagine the red-faced, bearded guard standing before the stairs, blocking the way with his trusty spear. “He specifically forbade anyone to disturb him,” Gervys continued. Aron had indeed asked Gervys to stop anyone who was like to disturb him. There was always someone who chose the night to meet him, and though he usually didn’t mind, as long as it was important enough, this night he had planned to try, yet again, to get Lady Ester with child. He had fallen asleep before he could muster the will to take her, though. He sighed. “Who is it?” he called down the stairs. He saw Gervys’ shadow on the wall around the bend halfway down the staircase. The shadow turned around to look up. “Syr Vermundo, m’lord,” Gervys called, loud enough to wake any sleepers in his hallway. “Demands to see you immediately.” “Aron,” Syr Vermundo called, “I bring terrible news from the mountains, but this oaf here won’t let me pass.” Aron swallowed. Syr Vermundo was Aron’s uncle, although he was a year younger than himself, His granduncle Rilind had been granted sons long after his seed should have been spent. Aron’s lord father, Filip, had been given the command of King Kobian’s host, a large army that was to move across the Great Plain and engage the host of the rebel lord, Rogyr Ryfling. While Lord Filip led the campaign, Aron, as his heir, had stayed in the city at the family estates, taking care of his lord father’s business. What had happened? Aron swayed abruptly, steadying himself against the wall, fearful of his father. “I’m coming down,” he told his young uncle, “Meet me in the great hall.” When Aron entered the great hall, servants had already placed a trencher with two cups and a decanter of wine on the overlong trestle table that dominated the room. Torches had been lit in their sconces along the walls, and Syr Vermundo was seated at the far end of the table, looking sombre and tired. He rose when he saw Aron. “M’lord,” he said, bowing. Syr Vermundo had the long, raven-black hair of the Imlias, and the handsome face so many Imlia men were blessed with, but this night there was no beauty to behold; Syr Vermundo looked wretched, dark shadows and creases marring his otherwise perfect face. The knight poured wine into their cups while Aron sat down on a chair close to him. “You won’t believe it,” Vermundo began, taking a sip. He looked Aron in the eyes. Aron saw that Vermundo’s eyes were full of grief and anger, and he knew that his father would not be coming back. “What happened?” he asked. “The short story is, we lost.” Syr Vermundo sighed, looking away from Aron and into his cup. “That’s not possible,” Aron said, surprised. “That’s why I said you won’t believe it, Aron.” Anger crept into Aron’s voice. “My father had the largest army raised in the province for centuries. He had bannermen from all over the fiefs. There were countless archers, infantry, cavalry…” “I know, I know,” Syr Vermundo said, “I was there.” There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Aron clenched his fists. “I am afraid your father is dead,” Syr Vermundo finally confirmed. “Struck down before my eyes, cleaved almost in half by a most wicked blade at the hands of the Greyoak boy.” “Him again?” Aron spat, slamming his fist into the table.“Sorry,” Syr Vermundo said weakly. “He led a small group of men straight to your lord father’s command tent and demanded a duel. Your father was too arrogant to ignore it. Once he was slain, what remained of our army routed. I barely escaped with my life myself.” Aron found that he had lost his voice. He stared at Syr Vermundo numbly. “Before that,” Syr Vermundo continued, “the rebels had weakened us considerably. We did have the numbers, but they had a fury I have never seen before. They were like wild animals, and they managed to hold their middle. If Ryfling had not had the assistance of the Moon Guard, we would have beaten them within hours.” “The Moon Guard?” asked Aron, “They supported the rebel lord?” Syr Vermundo nodded, and took another sip from his cup. His lips turned a dark red. “To be honest,” said Syr Vermundo, “your father didn’t know what to do once his strategies failed. He did not expect such a defence from the rebels. We all expected a surrender, or a quick and decisive strike. Everything was turned on its head. They captured your uncle, as well.”“Which uncle?” Aron had five uncles, and several of them had joined the host as it marched across the Great Plain. “Syr Gian,” answered Syr Vermundo, shaking his head. “This is all a bit much to take,” Aron said, feeling a headache coming up. He rose from his chair, and then sat down again, burying his face in his hands. Suddenly, he began sobbing. He felt Syr Vermundo’s hand on his shoulder. “You are the lord of House Imlia now,” Syr Vermundo said, as if that would summon Aron’s lord father back to life. “Why didn’t you defend him?” Aron cried, shaking off his young uncle’s hand. “I would have if I could,” Syr Vermundo grated, “but the Greyoak boy was not alone. The Wolf of Markalas himself was with him, and that ugly bastard, the one whose horse I took at Riverroad Keep.” “And what about Syr Quinton Myrlock? Or Syr Heffon Mavenholt?” Aron cried. ”Had you been there, you would have understood,” Syr Vermundo said, a tear lingering in the corner of an eye. “We were slaughtered, Aron,” he added, slamming the wine cup angrily onto the table. “This is King Kobian’s fault,” Aron hissed through gritted teeth, “he should have amassed a larger army. He should have sent more able commanders to assist my lord father.” “I am sure he did the best he could,” Syr Vermundo said, “remember the Glenmyrs are still struggling to control the Rhynmor, and the Wenzels are guarding the Empty Road. Our forces are spread across the province, and everybody believed your lord father’s host was more than enough to quell the uprising of Rogyr Ryfling and the northern lords.” “Fucking nonsense,” Aron sighed, “we could…” “We could, we could,” Syr Vermundo interrupted, “but it is too late for coulds, my friend.” “Where is my father’s body?” Aron asked abruptly. “We hope it is brought back to Byrkburgh, but we can’t be sure. I am sorry.”There was a sharp knock on the door, and the door opened slightly. A guard’s helmed head showed itself. “M’lord, your uncle Ugo and his son to see you.” “Let them in,” Aron sighed. He noticed he had spilled wine on his night’s gown, dark red stains on white. “Am I next?” he muttered. Syr Vermundo either didn’t hear him, or ignored it. Two Imlia lords dead within a year, first his grandfather, and now his father. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Ugo Imlia was called “the Ugly” behind his back, for unlike most Imlia men, he had not inherited much of the famed Imlia looks. His son, Gunnio, was better off, but not by much. They both had the black hair, but Ugo’s had receded to two small strips of black around his ears. The two of them bowed low before Aron and Syr Vermundo. “We are sorry about your loss,” Ugo said gravely, directing his gaze at Aron. “And I am sorry about yours,” Aron replied, “I have lost a father, and you a brother.” “It is a dark time for us all,” said Ugo, “but we will have our vengeance, I promise you. One does not kill an Imlia without repercussions. I suggest you call for a family gathering first thing in the morning.” “I am going to pay my father-in-law a visit first of all,” Aron said, “meanwhile you arrange for a family meeting, here in the grand hall.” “Syr Vermundo,” he commanded, “go to the stable master and fetch me a good horse. I am going to Camrey Castle, now.” “I am sure it can wait until the morning,” Syr Vermundo said, trying to sound amiable, “besides, you must be granted an audience first, you can’t just walk up to the king’s bed and demand to talk to him, can you?” “Lord Aron,” uncle Ugo said, “Syr Vermundo is right.” Aron sat down again on his chair, letting out a long breath. Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt a great weight on his shoulders. “Give me more wine,” he said weakly, holding his cup out to Syr Vermundo. The knight filled it to the brim. “Whatever are you going to tell the king, anyway?” Ugo said as he sat down next to them. His son remained standing behind him, like a bodyguard. Gunnio was armed in leather and chain, a short sword hanging in a sheath on his belt. “I am going to demand a bounty on the Greyoak boy’s head,” Aron said. “That’s the first thing I am going to say.” He was rambling now, thoughts spinning without control. “I am going to tell him that within his lifetime, House Imlia will be the new provincial ruler. My son will be an Imlia, not a Camrey. If I can get that sow pregnant, that is.” Ugo raised his eyebrows, and Syr Vermundo frowned.“Once I have the Greyoak boy in my hands, I will challenge him to a duel.” Suddenly, a faint memory came back to him, of a duel he was engaged in near the road to Bródford, and he remembered seeing Tylendel Greyoak pass him by, together with that Moon Guard dog of his, the one they called Eld and who they claimed was a bastard son of the king. “Lord Aron,” Syr Vermundo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that’s exactly how Lord Filip was murdered not a week ago. In a duel with Tylendel Greyoak.” “My father was never a good duellist, not like me,” Aron snapped, his eyes now darting back and forth between Vermundo and Ugo. “I will tell King Kobian that ''he ''can pay Uncle Gian’s ransom! It’s his fault!” Ugo frowned. “Now, now,” he said, trying to calm down the young lord, “I think you should sleep on all of this before…” “No! I will not sleep! How can I? That sow upstairs snores so loud I sometimes wake up believing I am at Calvyn Blackryvers’ sawmill! And how can I sleep knowing my father lies dead upon some distant field? Tell me!” For a moment, it looked as if Aron was about to hit Ugo, but he suddenly sank back into his chair, as if the air was pushed out of him. “Save your strength and anger, Aron,” Ugo said, “the war is not yet over. Before Kobian can truly call himself king, Rogyr Ryfling must be destroyed, and we still have the reinforcements from the far west to contend with. We need to be careful, weigh our options…” “As long as Tylendel Greyoak dies at my hand,” Aron sighed. “First things first,” Ugo said. “We need to assemble a council tomorrow morning. Then we can discuss the future. You are the Lord of the House now, Aron. Make your father and your grandfather proud. Make us all proud. The revenge will be all the sweeter when the time comes.” Syr Vermundo, Ugo, and Gunnio left him there in the great hall. Aron was half asleep in the chair, staring into the wall as if there were secrets there to be divined. They closed the door behind them. Ugo turned to one of the guards at the double doors. “Keep an eye on Lord Aron,” he said, “he is maddened with grief for his fallen father.”The guard nodded. “He is mad, isn’t he?” Gunnio asked as they were out of the guards’ hearing. “It will pass,” his father assured him, “we Imlias have hot blood, you know.” “I have a vengeance to take care of myself,” Syr Vermundo said gleefully. “Let Aron deal with the Greyoak boy, but leave the bastard to me. I will laugh at him as I skewer him. Those two are disrupting way too many plans for Kobian to ignore them much longer.” “Yes,” Ugo mused, “the bastard Eld must certainly die. He’s more important to us than this Tylendel; no matter he killed my brother. We must keep our heads cool, Syr Vermundo.” “As cool as an Imlia can be,” Syr Vermundo said, a dark smile playing on his lips. “Besides, the Greyoak boy already has a bounty on his head,” Ugo continued, “but nobody seems to be able to take him down. Even Moralm Bagba tried, and Syr Feliks Mirewater was in the fray only to find and kill him. Yet, he continues to elude us. To think that he was once our property. My father should never have sold him to Lord Emon.” “Lord Samew couldn’t have foreseen all this happening,” Syr Vermundo answered. They went down a flight of marble stairs to find their quarters. Every Imlia had a room here at the Byrkburgh estates, in addition to the mansions they owned spread across the province. “I bid you a good night then, Syr Vermundo,” Ugo said as they came to his doors. Gunnio had already left them a few doors back. “Good night to you, as well, Ugo,” Syr Vermundo said, “and thank you for coming down. I don’t think I alone could have kept Aron from doing something stupid.” Ugo smiled. “That’s what’s family is for, isn’t it? To keep each other from doing stupid things.” Syr Vermundo nodded, stifling a yawn.“The time of the Imlias is coming,” he said, echoing Lord Samew’s words at the marriage of Aron and Lady Ester. “It is coming,” Ugo echoed, then unlocked his door and went inside. Vermundo found his own quarters, a small room with a window overlooking the orange tree rows on the northern side of the estates. Once inside, he stripped off his clothes and went to bed, his head spinning. It had been a long and tiresome flight across the Great Plains, and he had kept himself alive on what water he could find in small streams and creeks, and the thought of getting back at Eld of Byrkburgh. He fell asleep thinking of how good it would feel to snatch back that utterly beautiful, black destrier from Eld. It belonged to someone like him, a princely knight of an important noble family, not an ugly bastard. Aron wept. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he did not care. His black moustache quivered as he sobbed. He didn’t know how long he spent sulking in the great hall, bent over the table, clinging with one hand to his wine cup. “I will help you,” he heard a low voice say behind him. Aron jolted from his seat, turned around fast. His hand automatically went to his side, where his sword would have been had he not been dressed in a night’s gown. Before him stood a man in a dirty, brown cloak, the hood drawn over his head, smiling. “How did you get in here?” Aron asked. The estates were well guarded. “I walked through the door.” The man’s smile grew wider, revealing a row of teeth pointing in various directions. “My name is Eron Greenblade, and I too, have a bone to pick with Tylendel Greyoak and the bastard Eld.”